


power and control

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode Tag, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the kind of torture either of them were expecting at the start. </p><p>[Takes place during 3.09.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	power and control

 

Jemma might’ve found a weakness Ward doesn’t realize he has.

She’s had a bit of time to think about it. Torture isn’t exactly mentally stimulating, and since she’s committed herself to not giving anything up, all there is to do is scream and think.

Until, of course, he comes stalking back into the room, holding up one hand tersely to stop the telekinetic from doing anything else. So in charge. Seemingly, anyway.

“Your boss has made some pretty interesting threats,” he chokes out at her, brimming with rage.

“You know better than most that Coulson doesn’t like to be messed with,” she responds simply, shrugging one aching shoulder.

“I don’t think he realizes that I have the upper hand,” Ward says. And every word, every syllable, is designed for his own ears, to take back some modicum of control over this situation.

“I don’t think you realize that you don’t,” she argues.

Jemma wonders how she looks to him right now, arms in shackles behind her, roughed up but still relentlessly angry. What did Malick call her? _Feral_.

She can’t really argue with that.

It’s not like Ward isn’t feral, too. Everything he is, everything he does, feels sleek with strength. The way he trains. The way he paced the lines of his cage all those months. Plus the way he’s gazing intently at her right now.

She raises an eyebrow.

“You know, we could’ve had something, Jemma,” Grant says, in that fake remorseful way that he says everything nowadays. He doesn’t bother elaborating _what_ they could have had.

She knows. And if that’s how he wants to do this, then she’s game.

Deliberately, she looks him up and down. And then, deliberately, she looks ashamed.

He grins. He grins like he’s caught her between his teeth. Like she didn’t just climb behind them to sit comfortably on his tongue.

 _Clear the room,_ she thinks.

“Everyone out,” Grant says, waving a hand behind him, not taking his eyes off hers. The telekinetic gives him a sharp look but does as he’s told, and after a moment her torturers have disappeared.

All but one.

Ward circles her again, this time letting his hand trail the strip of skin exposed at her back, her hip, just above the button of her jeans as he comes to face her again.

“I’m still not scared of you,” she says again, chin canted upward so she can stare into him, even from such a small distance.

His eyes widen ever so slightly. His pupils dilate at the thought.

She smirks.

And suddenly his mouth is hot over hers, strong arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to him but also tugging against her restraints painfully. She lets out a high, angry sound as her wrists are rubbed raw but he doesn’t release her, instead jerking her back against the pole she’s shackled to, looming over her. He’s practically humming under her lips. She opens her eyes to see that his are screwed tight in reverence, in a desperate attempt to believe in this action without the circumstances around it.

Grant's tongue probes further. Consuming and consuming.

He lets her breathe for a moment, stooping to drop frenetic kisses down her neck, sucking, biting, laving, and repeat. She moans as he gets to the sensitive place on her jaw; but, not to be outdone, she tilts her head to catch his lips again, biting the bottom one between her teeth and tugging hard. He’s neutered by it, following at her mercy as she tastes bitter blood. 

Deftly, his fingers unbutton and unzip her pants. He pushes and she writhes, both trying to work them down her legs far enough without actually separating. It doesn’t work, and when his mouth leaves hers she gasps aloud. Like lightning he’s on his knees, sliding down her pants, mouthing mindlessly at her through her panties. He takes a hand and tears through her underwear impatiently like they’re nothing, before both arms come around her thighs like vicegrips, lowering her slightly onto his begging face. She cries out.

It’s not that this isn’t enjoyable, but she can only stand about a minute before she gets restless. This wasn’t what she expected from him, and she’s not pulling the plug until she gets what she wants.

So she whines. Wordless, but her intent is clear. He ignores her.

She growls again.

So she lifts one leg, and, twisting awkwardly, kicks him in the side as hard as she can. “Get up here,” she hisses, voice already hoarse from so much activity.

He doesn’t lose his sense of urgency as he stands back up, catching her lips once more, letting her taste herself. She drinks it in. A treat before the inevitable pain. She can feel more movement near her bareness and realizes he’s pulled his cock out, ready to go. Somehow she knows that when she hops up he’ll catch her, pressing her against the pole that she’s still chained to, lining himself up before sinking fully home.

She howls.                                                                                                                                                                                                

Sweat beads on his forehead as he moves back and forth and a delicious fullness overtakes her. This person – not Grant Ward, but the nameless body that she fucks with purpose – is better than a dream. All of a sudden, she was never betrayed or hurt or broken. This person has no identity, no brain or heart or soul. This isn’t wrong, this is natural. This is natural.

If she even recognized her moral code anymore, she’d classify this as a full-bodied sin.

“Harder,” she spits at him. One of his hands snakes up to her hair and tugs in frustration, wrenching her head back. But he does as he’s told.

She wants to scream out in pain at the pole digging ruthlessly into her back, but she screams out for other reasons instead, leaning even harder into each movement, into the hurt. What’s the point of this if not to prove she can withstand anything?

His spine curves dangerously as he shucks her up further on the pole, scraping the skin on the back of her neck but exposing her collar bone. Something to bite and abuse while she swims in pain and pleasure.  

Suddenly two loud bangs come from the door – someone rapping their knuckles. There’s no way the person on the other side doesn’t know what’s happening in here.

“ _Not now,_ ” Grant snarls at the door. He changes his angle slightly, drawing a low moan out of her.

“More,” she breathes.

 “ _Stop. Bossing. Me. Around._ ” But again, he pushes into her faster before sucking a dark spot onto her shoulder.

That's exactly what she needs. Jemma considers warning him that she’s close.

She keeps her mouth shut.  

She swears as she comes, loud and right in his ear. And it’s her, warm and contracting around him, that sends Grant through the roof, teeth sinking into a mouthful of her shoulder so as not to give her the satisfaction of a moan as he comes.

Like she doesn’t know anyway.

He shudders the way a windowpane shakes after a storm. She lets him. He keeps fucking into her, seeking warmth for as long as possible; but after a while, there is only hard silence and exhaustion for them to collapse into.

He sets her down on the ground.

And he can’t look her in the eye, shoving himself back in his pants. He still believes he was in charge, that he made this happen singlehandedly. She has to admit it to herself: this is the Grant Ward she knows.

But now’s not the time to show weakness.

“Put my pants back on,” she orders. He does. Picks them up off the floor, shakes them out, helps her step into them. He pulls them tight over her, buttoning and zipping carefully. Then he helps her step into her shoes. Straightens her shirt and smooths back her hair.

There are two sharp raps on the door again. Right in front of her, his eyes grow dark again, sinister and angry. Easy as slipping on a mask.

“What?” he barks.

The door opens, and one of his henchmen enters.

“He broke, sir.”

Jemma knows he means Fitz. She makes sure that no reaction overtakes her face. Blank and smirking again in the face of her captor, unwilling to quit. 

“Finally,” Ward says. “He agreed to the terms?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take both of them to the portal.” He puts space in between him and Jemma. Staggers towards the door as people swarm the room again.

But he can’t help himself, can he?

She knows him. She knows he can’t help himself.

He looks back at her.

She keeps smirking.

 


End file.
